Perhaps you've heard of people being able to predict when a storm is coming with their "trick knee" or because some other joint starts to hurt. It took me awhile to realize that their is a connection between my headaches and the weather. From my own experience, if it is going to rain, the likelihood that I'm going to get a headache goes way up. Add in some of my other headache triggers, like hormonal changes, alcohol, and stress, and I'm in for a perfect-headache-storm.
I know I am not alone in my weather-induced migraines, for I just discovered that accuweather.com has a migraine module on their local forecast. The website shows that I am currently experiencing headache weather (it's raining). However, according to the their iPhone app, my migraine risk is low.
At any rate, thankfully I don't have a headache today and my forecast for the weekend looks pain free.
What are your headache triggers? How does the weather affect you?
While riding in my parents' minivan, King and Curtis were having an all too familiar circular conversation.
Pointing at the video screen on the ceiling, King said, "I could play Xbox on that."
Curtis responded, "No, you couldn't."
"Yes. I could."
"No. You couldn't."
King finally realized that he was caught in his dad's conversational circle of death.
He tried to break free, "If I was the only one in the minivan, I could. I mean it would be possible."
But Curtis delivered what would normally be the conversation-killing death-blow, "And if my aunt had balls, she'd be my uncle."
Then Michael jumped in and turned the conversation on its head, "Well… not necessarily."
Michael was eating a piece of bread.
Suddenly, he had a look on his face like the bite he just took was a little hard to swallow.
I asked if he was okay.
He pounded his chest a few times with his fist and in a gruff, grunting voice he managed to say,
"I'm okay... it's just cholesterol."
The Laughing Song
by William Blake
When the green woods laugh, with the voice of joy
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by,
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.
When the meadows laugh with lively green
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily,
With their sweet round mouths sing Ha, Ha, He.
When the painted birds laugh in the shade
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread
Come live & be merry and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, Ha, He.
On Monday, I posted this on Facebook:
I do not – nor will I ever – look like Ashley Judd.
There are many other ways I am not like Ashley Judd:
- I do not have a make-up artist.
- Actually, I don't wear make-up at all.
- I do not have a hair-sylist.
- Actually, I don't style my hair at all.
- I don't even wash my hair that often.
- I don't have any kind of stylist.
- I am not married to a race-car driver.
- I have not considered running for congress.
- I could go on, but I won't.
People have said I remind them of her, like Tommy, the older gentleman who used to bag my groceries, but then he couldn't remember her name, so he'd say "Hey there, Sheila!" every time he saw me. I've also had people say I look like Natalie Portman, Winona Ryder, and Helena Bonham Carter. Countless people have also told me I look like their friend, "so-and-so". I once had a boyfriend who said I reminded him of a humpback whale. (I forcefully told him that it didn't matter how he meant it, that sort of analogy was never appropriate. He wasn't my boyfriend for very much longer after that.) The point is, I think I just have one of those doppelgänger faces. For some reason it reminds people of people.
I do like a short hairstyle Ashley Judd used to have, so I brought a bunch of pictures of her with me to my hair cut appointment. I joked with the stylist that I wanted him to "make me look like Ashley Judd". After a little nervous laughter from him, I assured him that the pictures were just for reference to the style, length and layers of the type of hair cut I wanted. No miracles were expected. I even threw in a few pictures of myself in short hair to prove what I wanted was within the realm of possibility.
He then talked about the unrealistic expectations of some of his clients and how he has to remind them that these celebreties have hair-stylists that do their hair for them. [hint, hint] Coincidentally, Curtis had the same thought when I showed these pictures.
"You look great in short hair or long hair," my very, very wise husband began, "but don't get a hair cut that you have to 'style' everyday."
This was a not so subtle reference to difference number four between Ashley and me. I assured both Curtis and the man about to cut my hair that I was going into this haircut with realistic expectations. I am not, nor will I ever be, Ashley Judd. And I am okay with that.
By now you might be wondering how my haircut turned out. It is easy to post a picture of a celebrity on your Facebook page with a pithy comment about how you want to look like her. It is an entirely different thing to post a picture of yourself in a haircut that you've already compared to said celebrity, especially when you consider the aforementioned differences one through six. Even if I hadn't inadvertently compared myself to a celebrity, posting a self-portrait is not an easy thing to do. Maybe if you are sixteen it is no big deal, but I am not sixteen.
I am not usually overly critical of the way I look. I am satisfied. But a part of the secret to my happiness with my appearance is not spending too much time looking at myself in the mirror or looking at pictures of myself. If I look at myself too long, any perceived flaw suddenly appears to be my most prominent feature.
Many were asking to see my new haircut and growing impatient. So I began to take self-portraits. I tried to find a flattering angle: looking up. looking down, looking off into the middle-distance, scowling, smirking, smiling, squinting, looking puzzled, and eventually looking annoyed.
I was becoming sick of myself, my face, and I even started hating my new hair-cut, which I had been perfectly happy with before my photo-session began.
This was my final self-portrait which just about sums up how I felt about the whole process:
Then came the editing. I tried different filters and different brightnesses. I even tried to erase the dark circles under my eyes.
Then I tried lightening my whole face to remove all wrinkles and blemishes.
Hey, why not blot out my face entirely? It was the hair everyone wanted to see anyway, right?
Are you sick of me, yet? Curtis certainly was. I was flipping through pictures of myself for him like an ophthalmologist flipping through lenses. "Which wife do you like better? This one or this one? How about this one? Is this one better? Or this one? I think he answered yes to all of the above. Did I mention he is very wise?
Enough of that. Here is my new haircut. And my old face. And some guy walking by behind me.
Rated "G" for goats.